By Jon Hansen, C.Ss.R., Bishop of Mackenzie-Fort Smith, Member of the National Council
This year’s Advent stories draw on experiences that members of the Development and Peace ― Caritas Canada delegation had in Brazil during the COP30 climate summit in November 2025.
“You know what time it is, how it is now the moment for you to wake from sleep.
For salvation is nearer to us now than when we became believers;
the night is far gone, the day is near.”
― Romans 13:11-12
This Advent story finds me far from home, standing on the banks of an Amazonian River in Belém, Brazil, as the world gathers for COP30. Advent is normally a season of quiet waiting, candles glowing softly in the darkness. But here, the darkness is different. It is the darkness of loss—the loss of forests, of homes, of livelihoods, of species and of the fragile balance that sustains life.
And yet, it is also a place where light breaks through.
I came to COP30 with a small delegation from Development and Peace ― Caritas Canada, walking alongside partners from the Global South whose lives are already marked by the wounds of climate change. Their stories are painful: crops washed away by floods, ancestral lands stolen or burned, children growing up with uncertain futures. These are Advent truths too—honest, aching, longing for redemption.
But in listening to them, something awakened in me.
Advent is not only about waiting for Christ to come; it is also about waking up to where Christ is already present. And here, in the songs of Indigenous women marching for their rights, in the patient resilience of families protecting their forests, in the courage of bishops calling for a new coalition between North and South—Christ is near. Closer than we think.
In the lead-up to COP30, the Catholic bishops from Africa, Asia and Latin America and the Caribbean released A Call for Climate Justice and our Common Home. This document appeals for a relationship of justice between nations—a partnership strong enough to face the climate crisis together. Their words reminded me that Advent is a season of relationship too. God enters the world not with power, but with vulnerability. Not with force, but with accompaniment. Not with fear, but with love.
And suddenly I realized: that is our task as Christians.
To accompany the vulnerable.
To walk in solidarity.
To awaken to the suffering around us—and refuse to turn away.
There is sadness here in Belém, yes. How could there not be, when the earth itself is groaning? But there is also hope—a stubborn, Advent hope that refuses to die. Hope in communities who refuse to give up. Hope in young people who still believe change is possible. Hope in the Christ who comes quietly, insistently, into the very places that seem most forsaken.
As Christmas approaches, I carry with me the people I’ve met in the Amazon. Their stories have become part of my Advent prayer. I ask God to awaken in all of us a deeper love—one that does not stop at comfort or sympathy, but becomes commitment, action and solidarity.
Because this year, Advent is not only a season of waiting.
It is a season of awakening.
Awakening to our common home, to our common humanity and to the God who chooses to dwell among the poor, the wounded and the hopeful.
And that is where Christmas truly begins.